


Erotic Nightmares

by janus_air



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Poetry, Slash?, Warning: Epilogue Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 17:34:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5975554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janus_air/pseuds/janus_air
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Accidentally, Harry buys a book. The Love Poems by Basil Badluck make him think about his past in general and Draco Malfoy in particular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erotic Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> "Curse-breakin' man" is a Celestina Warbeck Song written by Saras_Girl (Turn).  
> Thank you very much to my helpful beta, Fluffy the Terrible! Since his proofreading I may have disimproved the story: All mistakes are mine.  
> 

Harry went into the book store looking for a birthday gift. He scanned the shelves and sighed. Who could keep track of all the books Hermione had already devoured? He stopped at a table with newly released publications and scanned the covers. _My Curse-Breakin' Man and a Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love – The Memoirs of Celestina Warbeck_. He snorted. Molly would be thrilled. Hermione would probably strangle him. _Discovering myself_ by Gilderoy Lockhart. Harry smiled back at the winking picture of his former teacher. _The Achievements of S.P.E.W._ by Adalbert Waffling and Hannah Abbott. Hermione had already shown Harry her copy, bursting with pride. _Celebrities and their Secrets_ by Rita Skeeter. Relucantly, he took the book and read the index. He knew it: The third chapter was entitled _Harry Potter in the Closet_. He thumbed through the book. The chapter began with a description of his “childhood wardrobe” and ended with assumptions about him being secretly gay because of the lack of maternal love and the influence of Dumbeldore's weakness for purple cloaks. Typical Skeeter bullshit, he thought. A wardrobe – that sounded almost like _The Narnia Chronicles_. A shrill voice beside him distracted him from his musing: “You should really really read it, Valentina, it made my cry for hours! It felt so good! I love this author!” A second approximately 18 year old girl replied: “I've told you a hundred times. I don't like his books. They are too dark, to depressing. I bet he's a pervert!” “These are different, believe me. This is not on war or horror, these are love poems. Very romantic.” “I've read two of this so-called love poems, that's enough. I found them really dark and dirty...” A third girl sniggered: “That's only because you like to read about clean, sparkly vampires ever since you ...” “Why don't you buy it then?” Valentina snapped. Harry could hardly quell a smile. “Because I don't like to read about love. Urg. Books about love are like songs of Celestina Warbeck: Cheesy. Yak. By the way, poems are old-fashioned and uncool. All my muggle friends say nobody reads them any more. Even their teachers hate poetry.” “It's different here. Wizards and witches honour poems.” the first girl said. “Really, is that why we were taught nothing about literature at Hogwarts?” “No, the other way round: Because wizards and witches don't have to read poems at school, they still enjoy to read them in their leisure time.” The first girl ignored the remarks about Hogwarts. She took a deep breath and whispered: “These poems are not cheesy and they are not dirty and I don't think the author is a pervert. I think maybe his girlfriend died.” “Necrophiliac,” Valentina mumbled. “You are the one mooning about undead lovers...” They left the table, still bickering. Harry snatched the book the first girl had promoted with such vigor. _Erotic nightmares_ by Basil Badluck. It was the most stupid author name Harry had ever heard of and that meant something in the wizarding world. The girls' argument had left him curious. He opened the book to read the first poem.

**_Without you_ **

_my eyes are yours_  
_they would be blind and hollow_  
_without you_

 _my breath is yours_  
_it would be choked and perished_  
_without you_

 _my thoughts are yours_  
_they would be empty and vanished_  
_without you_

 _my voice is yours_  
_it would by silent and crumbled_  
_without you_

 _my skin is yours_  
_it would be coal-black and dead_  
_without you_

 _my blood is yours_  
_it would be dust and crumbs_  
_without you_

 _my heart is yours_  
_it would be flaking and shrivelled_  
_without you_

 _there would be nothing but_  
_ashes ashes ashes_  
_without you_

_all my passion belongs to you_

_my body is only yours to touch_  
_even though you would never touch me again_

Harry blinked. He couldn't decide which of the girls' opinions he would share. Was it too cheesy? Was it too dark? It felt a bit sad and oddly warm to him even though he found this I-could-not-live-without- you-theme a bit exaggerated and corny. Especially the last verse sounded full of self-pity. Maybe Mr Badluck's beloved would do them both a favour by telling him to get a life. Harry smiled and turned the page.

**_cocoon_ **

_even in my most cruel time of solitude_  
_I never felt alone while you were near_  
_I slept peacefully_  
_snugly_  
_wrapped up in your delicate hatred_

  
These words affected Harry. A sudden wave of longing stirred inside his chest. He read the poem a second time because he wanted to find out were that came from. There was a strange and disturbing beauty in the rhythm of the last line. He looked up and checked if anybody was watching him, suddenly very self-conscious. It was the first time since he had hidden Snape's potions-book or maybe even the first time since his correspondence with Riddle's diary he experienced reading as an intimate act. Nobody was watching. He made up his mind and went to the counter.

-

When he flooed home he still had not bought a present for Hermione. His feet were hurting and his head was dull. He hated Hogsmeade on Saturdays even though it wasn't as badly crowded as Diagon Alley. Tomorrow he would fire-call Kreacher. Maybe the ancient elf would have an idea for the ideal birthday gift. He made some tea and settled in his favourite armchair in front of the fireplace. Since James and Albus were both staying at Hogwarts while Lily was hiking with her mother this weekend, Grimmauld Place was exceptionally quiet. Harry rummaged around in his bag and found his new book. He smiled, thinking: Basil Badluck, the cheesy pervert. Sounded good to him. He leaned back and opened the book.

_**I've seen your darkness** _

_when you died_  
_I finally saw_  
_the shadow you had lived in_  
_the nightshade of your existence_  
_the darkness in the crack_  
_between your determination and your fear_

 _how fragile and rough_  
_how brave and despaired_  
_you must have been_  
_to give up your live_

 _your obscurity shone diffidently_  
_while everyone else looked_  
_at your amazing brightness_

Harry froze, the teacup near his lips. The girl was right, he thought, someone had died. Probably a suicide. He shook his head. Something his teacher at primary school had told them about not confusing the first-person narrator and the author crossed his mind, but he was quickly overwhelmed with memories of his mother and her last words. He put his cup down and wiped his eyes. _The darkness in the crack/ between your determination and your fear_. He briefly thought about how he had felt in the forest, on his long and at the same time short walk to meet Voldemort and then his thoughts quickly returned to his mother again. A shiver crept up his spine and goose bumps made their appearance. He really had never read poems before. Was this how it was supposed to be? Maybe he was losing his mind, being too much alone after the divorce. It was not normal to show such a strong physical reaction to mere words, was it? Maybe Basil Badluck really was an extraordinary poet. Was he? Or maybe Harry was getting quite sentimental...

**_Snake_ **

_My Jealousy_  
_hissed and spat at you_  
_for years_  
_it's fangs dripping with poison_  
_you did not listen, did you?_  
_you would have understood_  
_I know_  
_that's all_

This poem hardly had any effect on Harry. He sighed with relief. He couldn't understand jealousy, even though he had thought about Dudley and their rivalry a bit. His hand grabbed his tea cup again. He liked the snake metaphor though. It turned the jealousy into something one could relate to, something one could tame or befriend. He enjoyed the bitterness of his tea.

**_Baptism_ **

_Right in the middle_  
_of war and destruction_  
_whilst death threatened to claw us into hell_  
_your kindness smelled of cinnamon_  
_alluring_  
_I felt tempted to dip my tongue_  
_into the dirty drops of your sweat_  
_ephemeral pearls on your neck_

There it was again. His neck tingled with the image of someone licking him there. Maybe the book was charmed or cursed to produce the reader's physical reactions. He couldn't quite pinpoint why, but the blurry image this poem invoked was somehow incredibly hot. This was not like Celestina Warbeck lyrics, it lacked flowers, it was kind of rough, yes, and dark. Seductively dark. Even though it wasn't. Dark. _Your kindness smelled of cinnamon_. These words were friendly and kind of tender. And yet. The dirty sweat. Did something to him. Let his trousers shrink maybe.

**_Worshipping your scars_ **

_you scars_  
_everyone knows they exist_  
_but who knows_  
_what they mean_

 _I yearn to taste them one by one_  
_while they whisper_  
_secrets to my tongue_  
_in ancient languages_  
_made of taste_  
_written in_  
_invisible letters_  
_of skin vibration_  
_at the edge of what is lurking inside_

 _and the unharmed skin_  
_surrounding them_  
_would squirm with envy_  
_but I shall lick its history as well_

Harry realised his hand was pressed – no, not to his famous scar, no, not to the scar left by Wormtail’s knife either, but - to his crotch. This was not good. He had been alone for a long time. Even though they got divorced only recently, he and Ginny had grown apart years ago. He had abandoned all thoughts about sexual fulfilment and nearly forgotten he even had a libido to speak of. And now he felt an urge to touch himself, to be touched, to touch... someone. His perspective shifted: Licking someone scars and letting someone lick his scars. And the unharmed skin. Images drifted into his mind and for one crazy moment he wondered if he had left a scar on Draco Malfoy's chest. He suppressed the mental image by thinking cheesy thoughts about the really friendly perspective of Mister Badluck. Harry had often suffered from people who judged him by his scar, but how many of them had shown an interest in the question what it meant to him? Not that he could tell what it meant to him. His scars were so ambiguous. _Secrets in ancient languages made of taste_. He shivered again. The cheesy thoughts couldn't distract him anymore, because he suddenly had the uncanny feeling, that Basil Badluck would understand him... and...and... maybe lick him... He groaned and tried to get a grip by resuming his reading.

**_Elegance_ **

_Your baggy old clothes_  
_made me want to rip them apart_  
_to tenderly cloak your naked skin_  
_with my rough caresses_  
_to bravely shield your sensitive limbs_  
_with my fragile desire_  
_to humbly hide your secret beauty_  
_in my imminent covetousness_  
_until I debauch your shivering flesh_

Harry didn't even stop.

**_Imitating Onan_ **

_last night I dreamed_  
_I licked your wand_  
_with eagerness and self-abandonment_  
_the phoenix feather core_  
_trickled your magic into my body_  
_until I spilled my seeds_

 _when I woke up_  
_my loneliness fully embraced me_  
_and I realised_  
_I would not love her as much as I do_  
_if not for you_

Harry really lost control. Filled with yearning and sympathy for the lonesome Basil Badluck he rubbed his crotch. It did not take long. _I spilled my seeds_ , he thought, _my loneliness fully embraced me_. Embarrassed, he cast a quick cleaning-spell. His trousers still felt a bit clammy. I should stop reading this, he thought. There probably was a curse involved. But somehow he felt addicted to these strange poems. Maybe that was part of the problem.

**_Chains in response_ **

_Your uncertainty_  
_my arrogance_

 _my outstretched hand_  
_your void_

 _my attempt to hurt you_  
_you spilled my blood_

 _I did not know it then_  
_but I would have given every single drop_  
_of liquid my body held_  
_for you_  
_because you dared_  
_to fully look at me_

The second time this evening Harry thought about the bathroom-incident, Draco Malfoy lying in his blood. Convulsing with pain. His own helplessness, his weakness. And then he saw an eleven year old Malfoy on the train, the scene highlighted as if someone had turned a spotlight on it: Malfoy who wanted to be his friend. He felt suddenly like he would faint. What about the phoenix feather core? Could it be? Surely not. If Malfoy wrote poetry it certainly would turn out to be old-fashioned poems including a strictly planned set of metres in a regular order and a particular rhyme scheme, at least sonnets or something like that. His fingers trembled.

**_Into the woods_ **

_When I saw your dead body_  
_I suddenly remembered_  
_that night we had gone into the deep dark forest_  
_regret tried to beat me down_

 _I should have harvested_  
_7 bottles of unicorn blood_  
_to drizzle some drops over your lips_  
_every time danger tried to claim you_

 _I idly wondered_  
_if I could kiss you awake_  
_a transfusion of the life you gave me_  
_but_  
_we never lived in fairy tale land_  
_I could never be your charming prince_

 _my mother's whisper in contrast_  
_had the power to save my world_

Harry gulped. His mother. Narcissa Malfoy, betraying Voldemort. He revisited the other poems.  
_There would be nothing but/ ashes ashes ashes_. _Whilst death threatened to claw us into hell_. Fiendfyre. Malfoy's sweaty hand. Malfoy on his broom, clinging to him. _Your delicate hatred. I never felt alone while you were near_. Harry gazing at Malfoy's tiny dot. The Phoenix feather wand. Harry's wand. Someone who could understand snakes. _My attempt to hurt you/ you spilled my blood_. Merlin!  
_All my passion belongs to you_... And Harry did what he always did. He didn't think. He rushed into things, unprepared. He apparated.  
-

The September air tasted soft and slightly spicy; the surprisingly warm wind smelled of hay harvest and mouldering plums. Strangely enough, the Gate of Malfoy Manor was ajar. Harry entered the garden, slightly worried. There were no peacocks in sight. Was that a good sign or a bad sign? He saw a shimmer and followed it, his knees weak. He found Malfoy sitting at a table in the garden, smoking a cigarette and scribbling something on a piece of parchment. The candle-light and his casual jumper made him look softer. Harry stepped on a twig and Malfoy looked at him. The cigarette tugged loosely in the corner of his mouth, he said: “Potter. What a nice surprise.” It sounded no less sarcastic. “What are you writing?” Harry demanded. “I don't know why you care, but I write a letter to my son. What can I do for you?” Lick my scars, Harry thought wildly. My dirty drops of sweat. “Er... I want to ask you something.” “Hm.” Malfoy looked again down to his parchment. Indifferently. Harry stood there and stood there. “Spill it, Potter.” Malfoy said, his lips curled up a little like he was tempted to smile. “Are you... are you...” “Am I what?” “Basil Badblood. Er, Badluck.” Malfoys eyes snapped to Harry's, his gaze heavy with suspicion. “Who gave you that insane idea? Rita Skeeter?” Malfoy stubbed out his cigarette. The dark green ashtray looked positively sublime. Harry sat down even though no one had asked him to. “The poems.” he said flatly. “Since when do you read? Really, Potter, poetry?” The snake, the phoenix feather wand, the hatred, someone who gave their life, the mother's saving whisper, fire (or fyre), ashes, the outstretched hand... “ _My attempt to hurt you/ you spilled my blood_ ,” Harry quoted. Malfoy's eyes widened only a tiny bit, but Harry knew he was right. “Do I look like someone who writes poetry? Honestly, Potter...” “You do.” Harry said stubbornly. “And if I did, what would you do? Sell it to the fucking _Prophet_? Report me to the ministry? Spill my blood - again?” Harry laughed: “Wouldn't you give _every single drop_ for me?” Malfoy looked really angry now and a bit dangerous: “Are you simply here to mock me? Will you ever grow up?” “Malfoy... I... I didn't mean it like that. Listen...” “Darling, won't you come in?” a female voice interrupted and then added, nearer this time: “Sorry, Draco, I didn't know you had company.” “It's okay, Harry just wanted to leave, didn't you, Potter?” “Harry?” the woman said. She stepped gracefully into the light, gave him her slender hand and said: “Good evening. I don't know if you remember me from school...I was in Draco's house, you know. I am Astoria.” “Nice to meet you again”, Harry mumbled, although he couldn't remember any girls from Slytherin except for Pansy and Millicent. He wished he could just hide and never appear again. “I didn't mean to interrupt your conversation,” she said shyly. “Don't forget to close the gate, Draco.” she softly added to Malfoy and vanished into the night again. Malfoy gave him a dark look. “I'm sorry.” Harry said. And to his utter horror he felt tears rushing into his eyes. It had only been his stupid kinky imagination. He had fantasised about their special relationship. Which was built of hatred. Not even _delicate hatred_. “Shall I listen or not?” Malfoy said, frowning. “Astoria is your wife.” Harry said. “Did that surprise you? I thought you knew I was married to her.” Harry couldn't say anything. The silence stretched. “What do you really want?” Malfoy asked. Harry shrugged. “Something that’s lost.” he whispered. Maybe Malfoy didn't even hear it. “What is wrong with you? You come here late in the evening without any invitation to mock me because you think I write poetry?” “I don't want to mock you.” “Then what do you want?” Harry smiled sadly: “Basil Badluck, I suppose...” Silence again. “Sorry. I will go home. Bye...” Harry said and turned around. “What for? Why do you want to find him?” Malfoy asked. “It's kind of personal,” Harry replied. Malfoy looked at him seriously. Harry tried again: “I've read some of his poetry and it... kind of fitted... and it made me think about you... I really can't say what I wanted... because I'm confused and it is kind of embarrassing... really... but I didn't want to mock you, believe me... I made a mistake...well... _we never lived in fairy tale land_ , did we?” Malfoy's eyes smiled warmly but it didn't quite reach his lips as he added: “ _I could never be your charming prince_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am so excited! This is my first fan fiction story I dare to show you. It is also the first story I have written in English. I would be very grateful for feedback. Please, feel free to point out any typos and grammatical errors  
> 


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